


where the heart is

by windfalling



Category: Rune Factory (Video Games), Rune Factory 4
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4893994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfalling/pseuds/windfalling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“We can’t keep playing pretend forever, Arthur.“</i> On keeping secrets, remembering the past, and finding who you are.</p><p>Or: Frey and Arthur go on a journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for the harvest moon: big bang. the reveals are up, so i figured it was safe to post it.  
> go check out [mintleif's lovely illustration](http://hmbigbang.tumblr.com/post/130092983383/) for it!

It’s been a week.

Venti’s back in the castle. After a year and a half of searching, of fighting, of a thousand near-deaths—she has Venti back. It still seems a little strange, to go through the door connecting her rooms to the main hall and see Venti sitting there as she always did, overseeing the matters of a divine dragon. Frey looks at her sometimes and just stares, waiting for her to fade again.

She doesn’t, of course. But Frey’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  
  


-

  
  


Frey has a routine.

She gets up—on her own, most days, having long dismissed both Vishnal and Clorica from their wake-up call duties. (Frey doesn’t have trouble waking up—it’s the falling asleep part that she can’t quite get the hang of, anymore.)

She pulls on her work clothes and eats breakfast.

She goes to her animals first: feeds them, brushes them, gathers their fur and honey and milk.

She takes care of her crops next, harvesting and watering and planting.

After setting aside whatever items she needs for herself, she ships the rest.

Then she would set out for the rest of the day to Rune Prana, donned in armor and weaponry, with a pack of food, medicine, and other essentials on her back.

Now, though—Frey pauses in the process of slinging her shield on her back. Her boots are laced, her back is packed, and she’s wearing all her combat gear, but—

Venti is back.

Frey closes her eyes and sheaths her sword.

  


  


-

  
  


Venti gives Frey a curious look when she walks out into the main hall, still dressed for battle. Her head tilts to the side, and if Venti were human, Frey thinks her eyebrows would be raised.

Venti does not say anything at first. She just looks at Frey with those sharp eyes of hers, honed through centuries of knowledge and experience. Then she turns to the other people in the room—just a few travelers and merchants—and orders them to leave, her voice set in that low, intimidating rumble. Once the room is clear, the dragon settles into a more relaxed position, limbs stretching leisurely before her. Frey has known this version of her from the beginning—not as the regal, imposing Ventuswill, but as Venti, warm and lighthearted, shorn of all pretenses.

“Frey?”

Just one word, said in that light, familiar tone, and it tears her apart.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Frey says. Her voice trembles. A shadow comes over her; Venti curls her wing, very gently, around Frey. Venti stretches her neck and leans her head down to nudge at Frey’s side.

“I missed you, too,” Venti says, soft and quiet. “Thank you for bringing me home.”

  


  


-

  
  


“Sometimes I forget you came from the sky,” Venti says to her later, and Frey thinks, _Sometimes I forget, too._  


She remembers very few things about her life before all of this. Some of her memories have come back, snatches of images and sounds and smells: a farmhouse, a man saying her name, the rich scent of the earth. Beyond that, the only clear memory she has is riding an airship, carrying the rune sphere for a mission, and falling endlessly through the sky.

It is tempting, to think of the castle as home. She knows the number of steps it takes to reach the butlers’ quarters, knows the sound of rain against the slanting rooftop above her room, knows the texture of the stones that make up the walls. It is tempting, too, to think that she is a princess, that she truly belongs here.

“Selphia doesn’t need a protector anymore, now that you’re here,” Frey says casually, glancing up at Venti.

“Maybe not,” Venti acknowledges, “but it will always welcome you.”

It’s hard to read Venti sometimes, with her being a dragon and all, so Frey just nods and looks away. But she still hears what Venti is telling her, and it is this: no matter what Frey chooses, no matter where she goes, they will always be there for her with open arms.

  
  


-

  
  


Frey goes to meet Arthur for lunch. It is a quiet affair, as it is still a little early for the lunch rush at Porcoline’s Kitchen. He asks about her day; she asks about his. It’s all so very ordinary and mundane and calm and it grates at every single inch of her, the _normalcy_ of it, to be sitting at a table at Porcoline’s and eating his lunch and discussing crop values as if they had not just been at the brink of war mere seasons ago, as if Venti had not ever been gone, as if—

Arthur stops in the middle of discussing something related to his trade. Frey suddenly realizes that she’s breathing a little too hard, that her fingers are wrapped too tightly around her fork.

“Frey? Is everything alright?” He reaches out to her, covers her hand with his. Gently, he smooths out each of her fingers until the fork loosens from her grip, then runs his thumb across her knuckles. Slowly, she feels the rest of her begin to relax, and she manages a reassuring smile.

“I’m sorry. I guess I’m still adjusting to everything that’s happened.” It’s not everything, but it’s a truth nonetheless. She says nothing of the emptiness in her mind where her memories once were, of the endless curiosity burning inside her.

It’s not that she doesn’t trust him. There are few constants in her life, and he has become one of them. But there is so much to say, and she’s never had good timing.

“No need to apologize,” Arthur says. “You’ve been through a lot.” A shadow passes through his eyes when he says that, and there’s a strange look on his face, like he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to do it.

The door opens and the lunch rush spills into the room.

The moment is gone. Arthur lets go of her hand.

  
  


-

  
  


She remembers that first moment between them—that first hint of interest that sparked and led them to where they are today. It had been after she’d found Amber and things were still relatively calm. Frey and Arthur had spent a lot of time together with him guiding and helping her with the duties as the stand-in princess, and it’d happened during one of those afternoons.

Their conversation had somehow shifted away from the value of strawberries to Arthur’s fondness for spectacles, and he said, his voice low, “I’d bet you would look lovely with glasses on.”

Her breath caught with the way he was looking at her, and with a burst of courage she leaned closer to him and replied, “Well, let’s give it a try then.”

He’d been caught off-guard at her sudden proximity, and she took that opportunity to slide his glasses off and put them on herself. His breath stuttered, and she remembers wishing that she could have seen his expression, but Arthur’s eyesight was truly terrible and everything was a complete blur through his lenses. She lasted for a few more seconds before finally squinting and pulling them off.

“So?”

There was a curve to his mouth when he slid his glasses back on, as if suppressing laughter—most likely at the expression she made, her face scrunched up as she tried to see through them. But that look on his eyes had never left, and he was still focused intently on her as he said, “I was wrong.”

Frey was taken aback, unsure of how to respond.

Then he smiled. “You are lovelier than I could have ever imagined.”

Even now, it never ceases to amaze her, how he can just say things like that without turning the slightest shade of pink.

She thinks she started falling for him then.

  
  


-

  
  


It is only later that Frey gathers the courage to speak. She’s curled up on one of the sofas in his office, a book in her hands while he pores over his paperwork. It has been a lazy afternoon, though Arthur is working as usual.

Frey says, her heart in her throat, “Do you ever want to switch back?”

It takes a moment for him to react, but she can see the moment her words register in his mind by the way his hand pauses in the middle of writing. Slowly, he puts the papers down and lifts his head to look at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—being in the castle, instead of here. As a prince.”

“Not really. I’ve never really felt like a prince, as you know.” He looks at her for a long moment. Whatever he sees there makes him stand and walk toward her, then sit next to her, his knees touching hers.

He takes her hand and asks, “Do you? Want to switch back, I mean.”

She does not respond at first, and she can feel his fingers tighten around hers, the tension vibrating from his body. The answer isn’t as simple as _yes or no_ , for her. It is about the idea of letting go of who she has become, of everything that has defined her since the beginning of her memory, of embracing the unknown.

But it isn’t about what she wants.

“We can’t keep playing pretend forever, Arthur,” she finally says.

“I know.”

“It’s a miracle the rest of the town hasn’t found out yet. And then there’s your father—someone from the palace will eventually find out, too.”

“I know.”

Frey pulls her hand away. “Stop saying that. I _know_ that you know.” It comes out harsher than she had intended, and his mouth stretches into a thin line. She closes her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just—I’m sorry.”

Arthur hesitates, then puts his arm around her in lieu of a response. She leans her forehead on his shoulder. He’s stroking her side with his thumb, and his touch is a comfort, his way of letting her know that things are okay. “Tell me.”

“No, I’m sorry. You have work. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

Arthur tips her head up so that their eyes meet. He says he does not feel like a prince, but at times like this, with the full weight on his gaze on her, she can imagine him at the palace so clearly.

“Tell me,” he says again.

The words spill out of her. “I’m starting to think that all of this is real. That me, being a princess, belonging here, is real. But my life didn’t start here. Sometimes I wonder—did I have a family? Are they looking for me? Do they miss me? I don’t have a real home, or parents, or—”

She takes a shuddering breath and looks away. In the corner of her eye, she can see his mouth open, then close, and she wonders what words he held back.

Then he takes her face into his hands so they are looking at each other again, and she has never seen him so solemn. He says, “Your princess status may not be real, but never doubt that you belong here.”

It isn’t until he begins wiping her cheek that she realizes she’s crying. There are other things he wants to say, she knows, but he remains quiet and holds her until the tears stop falling at last.

  
  


-

  
  


The next few days pass by.

Arthur had promised to revisit their discussion at a later date, but he has suddenly become more involved with his work, and she has only seen him during meals at Porcoline’s Kitchen.

It’s a little lonely, she admits. But even though she is the acting princess here in Selphia, she knows that he still manages international trade on behalf of the kingdom on top of the work he does locally.

Frey leaves a note at his desk. It says, _Remember to take a break every now and then! Come by for dinner sometime._ She signs it with her love.

  
  


-

  
  


Frey sees Arthur walking out of Jones and Nancy’s house one day and thinks nothing of it.

But when she catches him going in or out of the clinic a few more times during her daily rounds through the town, her mind goes into overdrive.

The most logical conclusion to draw is that he’s discussing merchandise with them. Frey has often bought medicinal ingredients from Nancy; it would not be unusual for Arthur to discuss work-related matters with them.

But a small part of her wonders if there is something wrong. He does not look ill, and he has not mentioned anything to her, but then again, she’s seen him so rarely over the past week, so would she even know?

_Ridiculous_ , she tells herself. _You’re being ridiculous._ There are other reasons to visit them, after all, as it is their home as well.

Frey shakes off her suspicions and walks away.

  
  


-

  
  


The last time Frey had been to the clinic, she had just come back from Rune Prana with Venti. She had done most of the healing herself, but the others had forced her to go for her own sake.

She has often wound up lying in one of the beds in their clinic more times than she would like to admit, scraped and bruised and battered. Frey takes better care of herself now, though. She still remembers the third time she’d collapsed and woken up there, the way Nancy’s face had crumpled in relief when Frey opened her eyes, and how Nancy had hugged her and scolded her at the same time.

Jones had spoken to her in private, later. _We weren’t sure if you were going to wake up,_ he’d said gravely. _I’m not a miracle worker, and there’s only so much a body can take._

She had been tempted to lighten the mood by joking around, but she saw the look on his face, that deep concern, and understood what he said to be both a warning and a plea. Frey has not worked herself to exhaustion since, and she has learned when to fight and when to run away.

So when she walks into the clinic and sees Nancy’s face immediately transform into alarm, Frey is quick to assure her, “I’m fine, Nancy, don’t worry.”

Still, Nancy scans her from head to toe, pursing her lips as she replies, “How can I not worry when every time I see you, you’re all scraped up?”

Smiling, Frey lifts her arms and spins to show Nancy that she’s uninjured.

Apparently satisfied, Nancy smiles back. “Is there something you need?”

“I was just passing by and thought I’d say hello,” Frey says casually, inwardly wincing as the words come out.

Nancy hears the partial truth for what it is and raises her eyebrows. Frey did want to see her in a non-medical situation for once, yes, but the full truth is that she’s worried about Arthur, and says this to Nancy.

What Frey expects is for Nancy to scold her, to tell her that it is not her place to be asking about a potential patient, but Nancy goes all soft and sad instead. “Arthur is fine,” is all she says.

Frey does not think Nancy is lying to her. But there’s something off about it, the way she says it, the way Nancy’s looking at her, that robs her of her relief and makes her stomach twist anxiously instead.

When Nancy sees the expression on Frey’s face, she says, very gently, “Maybe you should speak with Arthur directly.”

Frey nods and looks away.

  


  


-

  
  


She isn’t sure what to do anymore or what to believe.

Frey fixates on that look on Nancy’s face, that intuitive feeling there is something she is missing here, something she does not know, something Nancy will not tell her. Mostly, she is worried about Arthur, though she can’t find it in herself to bring it up to him.

How would she even say it? _Hey, Arthur. I swear I’m not stalking you, but I kind of saw you hanging out at the clinic a lot more than you usually do. And I know it’s none of my business, but are you okay? Like, physically. Health-wise._

She cringes and shuts her eyes.

A moment later, someone comes barreling into her. Her breath rushes out of her lungs as small arms wrap around her waist, and Frey feels a flutter of wings when she instinctively returns the hug.

Frey opens her eyes, knowing already who she’ll find. Amber looks directly at her with that wide-eyed gaze of hers, her mouth curved into a tiny frown.

“Amber. What are you doing?” Frey smiles, brushing Amber’s hair behind her ear.

Amber says, “I’m hugging the sadness out of you.”

Frey feels her throat go suddenly tight.

“Don’t be sad,” Amber whispers, and Frey strokes her hair, presses her close.

In the end, it is Amber who convinces her. Amber, who is somehow naive and perceptive all at once, with her preserved innocence, and with her loving arms, hugs Frey’s sadness away.

And Frey makes a decision.

  
  


-

  
  


Her decision is this: to talk to Arthur.

This is more than just her own loneliness—Arthur has often overworked himself to the point of collapsing, and she is not the only one who has noticed. Frey has spoken with Margaret and Dylas, listened their mirroring concerns. Margaret has offered to help stage an intervention of sorts, but Frey does not think that would go over all too well with him.

But when Frey finally goes to speak with him, he isn’t there.

“He’s gone?”

Frey gives Volkanon a blank stare. Arthur’s desk is clear of its usual clutter, and even his room is tidier than usual. She had noticed the airship was gone earlier but hadn’t made the connection.

The older man gives her an odd look. “Yes, His Highness said he was needed at the capital for a while. He didn’t tell you?”

With her silence and the look on her face, it is clear that he did not. Volkanon looks at her with something close to pity. She almost expects him to go into his usual outbursts on her behalf, but he doesn’t, and somehow this—his silence—is worse.

“Did Arthur say when he’d be back?”

“No,” Volkanon says, but is quick to add, “He will return soon, princess, I am sure of it.”

She manages a smile. “I hope so.”

  
  


-

  
  


Arthur is gone for a week.

When he does come back, it is only for a short time, and then he leaves again.

She begins to wonder if he plans on returning to the palace. He was never meant to stay in Selphia on a permanent basis, after all.

Frey misses him more than she thought she would. Her life does not revolve of him, is not only him, but he has always been there since the beginning. He gave her his crown and gave her a home and made her into who she is today.

He sends her a few letters. They contain apologies for leaving, details about his travels, questions on her well-being.

He does not say when he is coming back.

  
  


-

  
  


After Frey’s morning chores are done, crops watered and animals taken care of, she finds herself in Arthur’s office again. It’s become part of her routine to drop by after her work is finished, just to say hello. She can picture him so easily: Arthur sitting at his desk, writing or reading through harvest reports, or him standing by the shelves, running his fingers along the books.

But he isn’t there, and it’s just her, staring pathetically at his chair.

She takes a sheet of paper from his desk and writes him another note for when he returns. When she’s done, she places it face-down, then turns to leave.

Margaret is standing by the door, looking at her. “I miss him, too,” she says quietly.

_It isn’t like he’s leaving forever,_ Frey wants to say. But for all she knows, he is.

Margaret takes Frey’s hand in hers. “I know you usually come by to see Arthur. But don’t hesitate to drop by anytime,” she says, her voice achingly gentle. “You are family, too.”

It is a touching statement. Frey squeezes Margaret’s hand back and smiles. _Family_ , she thinks, and something blooms in her chest, bright and genuine and hopeful.

  
  


-

  
  


When Frey enters Arthur’s office the next day, the first thing she hears is his voice, and all she can think is, _he’s back, he’s finally back_ , and nothing else.

The other details filter in slowly. His customary cloak and dress have been abandoned in favour of a lighter outfit, tunic and trousers. His hair, which he has not cut since they first met, is tied into a low ponytail. Even his voice sounds different—normally soft and quiet, it is now raised with an agitated edge—and it is directed right at Forte.

“—don’t need a bodyguard, I’ll be fine—”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, I think you do—”

The sight of Arthur and Frey arguing with each other is so odd that Frey is momentarily taken aback. The door shuts quietly behind her, but neither have noticed her yet, absorbed as they are in their debate.

“I understand your concern, Forte, but—”

“You can’t journey out into the middle of nowhere _alone_ , without protection. Even if you weren’t a prince, it would still be a terrible idea.”

Frey can’t keep silent anymore. “You’re going somewhere?”

Arthur has his back to her, but she can still see his shoulders tense when he hears her voice. He turns slowly, and though he smiles at her, it’s guarded and strained. His reaction to seeing her is so opposite from her elated relief, and it stings. She thinks it must show because his face immediately softens, and he takes a step toward her.

“He is,” Forte says, drawing Frey’s attention to her. Arthur gives Forte a hard look that she cannot understand.

“Forte,” he says, a sharp warning.

“Where?”

When it becomes clear that Forte is not going to keep quiet, Arthur gives a heavy sigh, and all of his resistance seems to drain out of him. “There’s something I need to find.”

“And it’s in the middle of nowhere?” Frey asks, repeating Forte’s earlier words.

Forte turns toward a map spread out on the desk, and Frey walks toward it. She points to a red circle marking an area southeast of Selphia, much farther than Frey’s ever had to go, where there is nothing but untouched nature for miles.

Frey suddenly understands Forte’s frustration. “You can’t go out there alone. It’s too dangerous.”

Arthur stares at both of them, two people in unmoving solidarity for someone they care about. “You’re a Dragon Knight,” Arthur finally says to Forte. “Your role is to protect Ventuswill and Selphia.”

Forte has a conflicted look on her face, torn between her duty to the Divine Dragon and to her prince. She looks as if she wants to protest, but Frey saves her from making the choice.

“I’ll go with you.”

Surprise flickers in Arthur’s eyes. In the few seconds he stares at her, off-guard, she sees that this is not the answer he wants or expects. Whatever it is he’s looking for, he does not want her to know about it.

“Selphia has survived without royalty to guide it,” Frey says evenly, anticipating Arthur’s counterargument.

He sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he does not look at her. “Fine,” is all he says, then goes to study the map.

Forte flashes a relieved look at Frey. “I will keep the town safe,” she vows.

“I know you will,” Frey says, and the knight gives her that rare smile before she leaves.

Frey waits until the door closes before turning to Arthur again. He is sitting by his desk now, his temple resting against his fingers. There are so many questions bouncing around in her head, _why did you leave_ and _why are you leaving_ and _are you sick_ and _you know you can tell me anything, right?_

In the end, she says, “Is it because of what I said, the other day? About the switch?”

His head snaps up and he looks startled, confused. “What?”

“After we had that conversation, I don’t know, things changed. I’ve barely seen you, the past few weeks. And you’re—different. Far away.”

“I’m right here.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He has that look on his face again, the one she can’t read, and he suddenly seems so tired.

Arthur reaches out a hand, palm up. She takes it, and he draws her to him until she is standing between his legs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words heavy and quiet. He is apologising, and for what?

Frey slides her hands from where they rest on his shoulder to the sides of his face, gently lifting his head up. Beyond him, in the corner of her eye, the bright red circle calls to her.

“What are you looking for?”

There is a knowing in the back of her mind. It is a prickling sensation formed by the emptiness of his words in his letters, the rigid line of his shoulders, that guarded smile.

She thinks back to that cave, the glasses, the story of his mother. How he had opened himself to her.

“You don’t have to tell me. But please don’t shut me out.”

The silence stretches unbearably. Her hands drop away, though his remain at her waist, holding her there.

“A plant,” he says at last.

“What?”

“A sun crystal. It’s a rare, used as an ingredient. And it is only found there.” He tilts his head in the direction of the map.

“An ingredient,” she says slowly, and she knows from the look on his face that she will have to ask. “For what?”

He presses his mouth together, and for a moment, she thinks that he won’t respond.

Then he says, “A cure.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Frey peers over the edge of the airship, watching the buildings and trees become smaller and smaller, reduced to geometric shapes as the ship climbs higher. The memory of the fall is vivid in her mind. Those terrifying few seconds, the wind whipping at her skin—she had never really considered how miraculous it was that she survived, but she thinks of it now.

Arthur calls her name. She has felt his eyes on her for a while now, no doubt worried about her safety, so she pushes away from the ledge.

“Do you want me to take over?”

They’d left only hours after that conversation, after her insistent  _I’ll go with you_ and his reluctant confession.  _A cure_ , he’d said, and she’d been so startled by his answer that she hadn’t asked what it was for, and by that time he was already turning away, telling her to go pack and be ready to leave.

“No, it’s not that.” Something in his voice makes her pause, and she walks across the ship toward him.

“What is it?”

There’s a grim expression on his face, though his mouth quirks in a wry smile when he glances at her. “I don’t know how you can look down so much without getting dizzy, but there’s something you should see.”

She follows his gaze and inhales sharply. The sky is clear where they are, but there are dark, billowing clouds blanketing the area ahead, creeping closer and closer.

“Can we go around it?”

“It’s moving fast, and the wind is not on our side.”

Lightning flashes in the distance. Frey watches the storm, then turns back to Arthur. “We need to try. At this rate, we’re headed right into the middle. It’ll be safer at the edge, at least.”

Arthur nods in acquiescence. “You should go inside.”

Frey almost laughs, and he gives her a look in response. “Of course you won’t,” he sighs. “Then hold on tight.”

She latches onto the railing just as Arthur turns the wheel. A particularly strong gust of wind knocks into them at that moment, and the ship lurches to the side as the steering wheel spins. There’s an almost painful tug on her arms as she loses her footing, but then the ship steadies as Arthur regains control, and she finds her balance once more.

“Sorry,” he says, voice tight. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What about you?”

Arthur doesn’t respond. His fingers are still wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles paper-white.

“I’m fine,” she repeats gently. Slowly, she reaches under his arms to place her hands next to his. “Let me take over for a while.”

It takes a moment, but he steps back. “Take a break,” she tells him. “I’ll call you as soon as there’s trouble.”

His arms come around her, and she leans back against his chest, and all the strain between them seems to unravel, relief loosening her limbs. Arthur rests his head on her shoulder, presses a kiss to her jaw. He says something so quietly she can barely hear him, although it sounds suspiciously like another apology—though for what, she does not know.

“What?”

“You’ll call me if you need help,” he says, and it isn’t what he said, but she doesn’t ask again.

“I will.”

Then he draws away, taking his warmth with him, and goes below deck as she keeps an eye on the oncoming storm.

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


Arthur comes up not long after as they enter the periphery of the storm. The dark clouds immediately envelop the airship, and Frey shivers as they pass through. Water coats the ship and rapidly cools into frost. The wind has picked up, and she does not dare lift her hands from the wheel.

Thunder rumbles through the air. The entire vessel quivers in response. She feels it as it passes through the wood of the wheel, rattling her bones. Lightning flashes some distance away, yet it still lights up the sky around them.

“Let me take over,” Arthur says, raising his voice to be heard.

Frey shakes her head. “I don’t want to risk it.”

Arthur begins to speak again—to insist again, to be sure—but then everything is white, illuminated, on fire. She is blind for a precious few seconds before a deafening crack bursts in her ears, and all she can see is the deck split in two, and they are falling,

and falling,

and falling.

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


Arthur searching for her, shouting her name—

her body smashing into the railing—

his hands, reaching for her—

And then the crash.

  
  


-

  
  
  


Frey wakes to chaos.

Everything is fire and smoke and pain, and someone is screaming, and by the time she realizes that she’s the one screaming, her throat is raw and dry. Every muscle in her shakes violently, and she stares wide-eyed all around her, a blur of green and red and brown, until a drop of water forces her eyes shut.

It’s raining, she realizes. It’s raining, because there was a storm, and they were flying, and the storm—

_Arthur_.

Her mind, still in a panicked haze, fixates onto that one thought.

Arthur was with her, and now he’s not.

Frey pulls herself into a sitting position, nearly buckling from the agony of moving her left arm. She gasps Arthur’s name, and then says it, then screams it at the answering silence.

Her fingers dig into the dirt. This is what grounds her: the feeling of the cool earth under her hands, steady and still. Maybe it is her affinity to it as an Earthmate, but she draws peace in it for now, closing her eyes and breathing deep and slow.

When she opens them, the kaleidoscope of colour rearranges into a more discernible picture. There are trees all around her, many with broken branches. Pieces of wood are scattered everywhere, and she follows the trail to the remnants of the airship. Split into two, the bow of the ship hangs a few feet above the ground, having landed on a tree. The stern lies nearby in a small clearing, splintered beyond recognition.

She tries to remember what happened after that first bolt of lightning had struck the ship, tries to remember where Arthur was, but all she gets is a throbbing pain in her head.

Frey touches her head gingerly, feeling for any open wounds, but her hand comes away dry. Her left arm is broken, and though it hurts a little to breathe, she concludes that her ribs are only bruised. Her legs have a few scrapes and cuts, but after a quick inspection, none are serious enough to warrant her immediate attention.

No dragon to land on, yet she still has survived another fall from the sky.

Propping herself up against a nearby tree, Frey grips her arm. It is, miraculously, the most serious of all her injuries. She creates a makeshift splint for it out of the fabric from her shirt and the wood from the ship, using only a fraction of her healing magic to dull the pain.

Arthur is still out there. She doesn’t know how bad his injuries are, or if—

_No_. Frey takes in a shuddering breath.  _He’s fine,_ she tells herself, over and over. Her mind is a litany of desperate wishes and prayers and his name.

She gets to her feet and begins walking toward the wreckage.

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


It isn’t difficult to find him, in the end.

She spots him lying close to the ship, a crumpled heap of arms and limbs. Her heart seizes, then starts racing as she runs toward him, ignoring the searing pain that shoots through her body at the effort.

Frey falls to her knees beside his body. “Arthur?” she says, shaking his shoulder. “Arthur, come on.”

He doesn’t move. With a trembling hand, she presses two fingers to his neck. There’s a sob building in her throat, and she chokes it down as she presses more insistently, shifting her fingers around, trying to find—

A pulse.

It’s slow and thready, but it’s there.

She almost cries with relief.

Frey sits back on her heels and begins to look him over, head to toe. There’s a nasty gash near the back of his head, and his arms are covered in scrapes and burns. His wrist is swollen and red, fractured at best. One of his legs is bent in an odd angle, too, most likely broken.

But what she cannot tell is if his neck or spine has been injured, and she does not dare risk moving him until she does know.

Her eyes flick back to his head, where the grass around it has been stained red.

She does not hesitate. Her hands glow green as she pours every drop of magic she has into her fingertips, into him. Frey holds them around his head, and he begins to heal.

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


The second time she wakes, it is to Arthur’s warm hand around hers. Her fingers twitch, and she feels him go still. Then he says, “Frey?”

She opens her eyes. They’re in a tent, she realizes, and the rain is still pattering away against the fabric.

Arthur is peering down at her with worried eyes through cracked glasses, and he is conscious, he is alive. The last thing she remembers is pushing all her energy into him in a desperate attempt to heal him. She must have blacked out from the effort, but he’s okay, and the relief at seeing him, hearing him, overwhelms her entirely. A sob escapes from her throat, and then she can’t hold it back anymore.

Arthur looks at her helplessly for a moment, wide-eyed. And then he is beside her, wiping away the tears at the corner of her eyes, murmuring quiet reassurances.

“I am alive because of you,” he says. “You saved me, and we’re going to be okay, we’ll get through this.”

She rolls toward him and presses her face against his chest. He wraps an arm around her, careful not to jostle her bad arm. She breathes in the scent of dirt and sweat and blood and rain, and when she tilts her head up to look at him, she finds his eyes already on her.

“We’re okay,” he says again, and there’s something different about the way he says it this time. It’s almost as if he’s asking a question, his intonation pitched the slightest bit upwards at the last syllable.

The vague letters, the abrupt trips, his distant behaviour, the secrets he has, all of it falls away when she thinks of when she saw his body, so still, so broken. She has faced all the monsters in Rune Prana, and yet nothing has terrified her more than that moment.

“We’re okay,” she confirms, and presses her lips to his. He sighs, just a little, and kisses her back, slow and sweet.

She keeps thinking of the airship falling, of waking up without him, and his mouth becomes more insistent, as if he senses the direction of her thoughts and is trying to draw her back. His tongue skims along her bottom lip, coaxing her mouth open, and her mind is anchored to the present, to the feeling of his tongue against hers, his hand splayed on her stomach through the thin fabric of her shirt. Then his fingers skim along her ribcage, and she inhales sharply and draws back.

Arthur looks at her face, then at where her hands have come up to guard reflexively at the pain. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s fine. Bruised ribs. I’ve already healed it a little, it’s just kind of tender.” She inspects the rest of her injuries and finds that most of her cuts are already closed up.

“I don’t have as much experience with healing magic as you do, but I know enough. But your arm… I only did surface-level work on it. I didn’t know about your ribs, though,” he says, and looks a little frustrated with himself.

“Not your fault,” she reassures him. “I’ll be okay. What about you? Your head?”

She sifts through his hair, matted with dirt and blood, to feel along his scalp. “It’s fine. My leg, too. You spent too much of your magic on me.”

Frey brushes off his mild reproach. She looks around their tent for the first time, taking in the frayed blankets, the cracked lantern. “Is this all that’s survived from the ship?”

“No. Most of the supplies are still good to use, surprisingly—the supply room was mostly intact when I went through it.”

“Food? Water?”

Arthur grimaces. “That was what didn’t survive. We still have enough rations for a few days. I’ve set up a couple of bins from the ship to collect the rainwater, so that should do for now.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Impressive, for a castle boy,” she teases.

He flashes her a quick grin and a shrug. “I’ve had some time to think.”

She tilts her head to the side, frowning. “How long have I been out?”

“Not sure. We crashed late afternoon, and when I woke up, it was dusk. I didn’t have much time before the sun went down, so I grabbed what I could. It’s been a few hours since then, at least.”

“How far away from the town are we?” she asks, her brows drawing closer together as she thinks. They have food and water for a few days, but this is the farthest she has ever been from the town, and she does not know if her magic can reach that far.

Arthur’s expression mirrors hers. “Five hours away by airship, at least. And that’s before we went off-course because of the storm.”

“You have no idea where we are.”

“I have some idea,” he says mildly. “I was charting our course on the map before we crashed.”

Frey shuts her eyes. She repeats, “Five hours,” and tries to calculate it in her head, how far home is, how long it’ll take to get there on foot if she can’t teleport them back.

It isn’t an option.

Arthur rubs his hand on her back. She leans into his touch, into him.

“It would take us maybe a week, week-and-a-half, on foot,” he says. He’s trying to be strong, to be unafraid, but she can see the same worries lurking in his eyes.

They survived the crash, a miracle in itself. But would they be able to survive the journey home?

She tries not to think of it. Instead, she holds out the blanket to Arthur. “Your turn to rest.”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off swiftly. “Just for a few hours. I’ll take first watch, and we can switch after that.”

“Why don’t you just sleep with me?” He flushes as soon as he says it, and she can almost imagine the stuttered apology that will follow,  _That’s not what I mean_ , but he just leaves it at that, and it surprises her.

Well. She knows what he meant.

Frey settles on a straightforward reply. “I don’t want to take any chances, especially if any of the wild monsters start getting curious.”

“Alright. Just wake me if you start getting tired.”

“Sleep,” she says sternly, but with a smile.

She waits until Arthur gets settled, and when his breathing starts to even out, she slips out of the tent with the lantern and keeps her eyes on the trees.

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


Her skin glows blue, brighter and brighter, traveling through linked hands to Arthur—and fades.

Frey staggers slightly with the effort to teleport them out. Arthur braces her shoulders.

“Maybe we’re too far,” he says.

She gives him a look. “I’ve teleported back from Sechs Territory, which was just as far as this, if not farther. I don’t understand why this isn’t working.”

Arthur ducks back into the tent for a moment, then comes out to toss her something to eat. She looks at his leg, the one that had been broken from the fall. There isn’t even a scar, and he isn’t limping, either.

He follows her gaze. “I told you, you went overboard. I think you used up most of your energy on me.”

He still has that look in his eyes, heavy and unreadable, though she thinks she sees guilt there. For a moment, she thinks it’s because she prioritized healing him over healing herself, but she remembers that he had that look even before the crash happened.

Frey carefully flexes her arm. She’d removed the splint earlier, satisfied that the bones had set and healed in the proper place.

“So what are we going to do, then?”

Arthur pauses, then says, “Try doing it alone, without me.”

“That isn’t happening,” she counters immediately. Her jaw sets. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“Frey,” he sighs.

“No. I’m not going home without you. Look, if we just start walking back… We have a general idea of where we are, and the closer we get, the less energy it will take for me to take us back.”

He’s hesitating, and he seems to brace himself for what he plans to say next. Frey suddenly understands. “You want to keep looking for that plant.”

“Yes.”

“For the cure.”

The words roll on her tongue, lips parting.  _A cure for what? Are you sick?_  She looks at the way exhaustion sits on his face, how it tugs heavily at his eyes and mouth. If Arthur is willing to risk his life for this plant, this medicine, if Arthur is sick enough to need it—

She wonders if she saved his life only to let him die from whatever illness he has.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“We’ll go look for it. Together,” she adds, when he opens his mouth to protest.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Let’s go see if the map survived.”

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


Two days later, they still have not found the plant.

Only a portion of the map had survived, but they had been able to make an educated guess as to where they were based on their surroundings, as well as what direction their goal may be in.

But it’s been two days of walking through the forest, and her optimism is beginning to waver.

The journey has taken its toll on Arthur, too. He has not complained once since they made their decision to continue the search, but he is still a prince. She doubts he’s ever had to do anything like this before, the only exception being the one time she took him out with her to the outskirts of Selphia, and she never repeated the experience.

It’s not that he isn’t decent with his defensive and offensive magic, it’s just that she can tell that this isn’t the sort of work he likes doing. He likes numbers and books, networking and trade—not hunting and gathering, fighting and foraging.

Arthur stretches out in their tent. Frey collapses next to him, flexing her aching feet. They lay there, side by side, staring up at the ceiling of the tent. She closes her eyes and listens to the sounds of the forest, the wind rustling through the trees, insects chirping and night owls hooting.

Arthur twines his fingers with hers; she strokes her thumb against his palm, following the soft crease of his lifeline. “Your hands are still soft,” she laughs.

He turns to her, smiling in response to her laughter. “What?”

She rolls to her side and raises their linked hands. “You have soft hands. Royal hands,” she repeats, then moves his fingers so they feel the palm of her hand, the callused ridges. “Mine are rough.”

He presses a kiss to the centre of of it and the warmth from his lips spreads down to her toes. “Farmers can be royalty, too,” he says lightly, referring to her supposed princess duty.

“You have it backwards. Royalty can be farmers—or rather, they can farm. But farmers can never become royalty.”

Arthur taps his thumb against hers, thinking it over. “You’re right,” he says, finally, and the words are heavy with the past, with blurred vision and glasses and mothers who walk away and don’t look back.

“I didn’t mean—”

He brushes a strand of hair from her eyes. “I know. It’s okay.”

“I understand what you mean, though. In Selphia, even as a princess, you still have to give back to the town in some way.”

“Does that make you unhappy?”

“No, I think it’s a good thing. I don’t mind farming. It doesn’t seem very princess-like, though.” She gives him a sidelong glance. “I wonder if you would have had to farm, if I hadn’t shown up.”

“Perhaps. Although I did come to Selphia to focus more on international trade." His expression shifts, becomes more serious. “What will you do, when you are no longer a princess?”

It’s the first time he’s directly referred to their conversation, her confession. She’s caught off-guard. “I… I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

Then he says, “If you remembered—or discovered—your real home, your real family… would you go back to them?”

Real home, real family, he says, and they are words that she’s said before. But there’s a jarring dissonance in her mind, and she doesn’t know what they mean anymore, what they meant. Who she is now, versus who she was.

“I don’t know,” she says again, and both her past and future seem to blur before her.

He seems to sense her distress, because his face softens, though he still looks oddly sad. “You could do anything, you know. Be anyone you want to be.”

He means to present her with infinite possibilities. He does not ask,  _who are you?_  but  _who do you want to be_ , and the question takes root in her mind.

_Who do you want to be?_

A farmer, she thinks, because at her core she is of the Earth. It is only one manifestation of her power as an Earthmate, but it is one that she has a particular connection to.

But beyond that lies a realization she has buried deep down.

_Who do you want to be?_

Who she has been for the past year: Selphia’s princess, soldier, and protector.

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


A week has passed since the crash.

Her hopes are running as low as their food rations, and she feels her energy draining each day.

Arthur is still determined, and though she catches him glancing worriedly at her every now and then, he has respected her choice to stay with him.

“Arthur.”

Frey has stopped walking a few paces back without him noticing. He stops a few feet away from her, but he does not turn.

She wants to help him, to find the plant, to find the cure.

But she does not think dying in the attempt is a good idea, either.

“Arthur,” she says again, and when he turns, she knows that he can see it in her face. Every muscle in her body trembles with exhaustion, with resignation.

“We aren’t going to find it. We don’t even know if we’re going in the right direction.”

He is silent.

“Look, I know how important this is to you, and I’m sure that when we get back, we’ll be able to try searching for it again.”

“We can’t,” he says grimly.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s rare—it can only be found until the spring equinox.”

Frey pauses as she counts how long it’s been since they’ve crashed. “But that’s… in two days.”

“Yes.”

Dread unfurls within her. Two days to find the crystal. To save Arthur.

Two days that they may not survive.

She swallows hard. “We’re almost out of food, but the real issue is water. I know you need the cure, but—”

“What?” Arthur suddenly says, looking confused.

Frey blinks, repeats the words slowly. “You said it was a cure. That you needed it.”

“I never said that.”

“Yes, you did, you—”

“I never said that it was for me.”

Frey stares at him, something familiar in his expression. She’s seen it before, she realizes. The first time was at the office, when he told her the purpose of his trip, and the second time was when she realized that he wanted to keep searching for it.

Both times, she never asked.

“What is the cure for?”

Arthur meets her eyes. Pauses. For a moment, she thinks he might lie to her, and she isn’t sure if she would be able to tell the difference. But he had told her once that he never would.

It is her, then. She never said the words, never asked him, because she was afraid of what the answer would be.

Then he says, “For you.”

“Me,” she repeats, uncomprehending.

“It’s an experimental cure,” he says, and drops his eyes. “For amnesia.”

The words don’t process at first. They filter in slowly through her ears, and then the past few weeks come flying through her mind, slotting the pieces together.

“Your trips to the clinic,” she begins slowly.

“I brought my findings to Nancy and Jones, to see if they would be willing to make it.”

She nods, but there is something else that she does not understand, no matter how hard she tries. “Why would you keep this from me? Why wouldn’t you just tell me, instead of—”

Instead of the long trips and the vague letters. Instead of his shuttered eyes, closed off to her.

Arthur takes a step toward her, then another. “I wanted to surprise you,” he confesses with a rueful smile.

She has known him for two years now, and though she thinks she’s gotten better at reading him, there are times when she has no idea what he’s thinking. Looking at him now, there is only a whirlwind of confusion and mismatched conclusions in her.

“That’s all?”

He hesitates. Just a split-second, but she notices. “I’m sorry. I should have told you about it. I’m sorry,” he says again, voice low, and his remorse is true. “After you told me how you felt about our situation, the swap—I never really considered what it’s like for you, or what would happen after.”

“That’s why you’re doing all this?”

He is much closer to her now, close enough to take her hands in his, though he doesn’t. Her fingers twitch, wanting to reach for him, but she forces them still.

Arthur angles his head to the side, peers at her from his cracked glasses. “It’s part of it. The other part is that you want to find who you were in order to know who you are, and I wanted to help you. After all, isn’t it natural to want to help someone? Especially when that someone is very important to you?”

The familiar words rush at her, said between them from another time.

Frey tilts her head up slightly to look him in the eye. “Thank you,” she says, “but let’s go home.”

Something flickers in his expression, a strange mixture of relief and resignation, and he searches her face. “Are you sure?”

Frey knows what she is saying goodbye to. She’s still a little dazed at the revelation, at the possibility of knowing her past. But when she thinks of the risks, the potential outcomes, and everything that’s happened?

She takes his hand. “Let’s go home,” she repeats, and leads the way.

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


They take things at a slower pace, now that they are not spurred on by the urgency of finding the plant. They come across a river the next day, and they are overcome with relief, laughing and hugging each other. Frey manages to catch some fish while Arthur sets up a fire to boil the water.

She burns the fish a little, but at that moment, it is the best thing she’s ever eaten.

Later, they take turns bathing in the river, washing away the blood and dirt and grime of the past week. The water is cold, as is the crisp, spring air, but they dry off and warm quickly by the fire.

For the first time since the crash, Frey feels good. Refreshed. She tilts her head up to the sun, arms braced behind her, spreading her fingers across the dirt.

When she turns to Arthur, she finds his eyes already on her in quiet contemplation. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking of Porcoline’s cooking,” he says, and though she knows his answer to be a deflection from the truth, she laughs.

“It was that bad, huh?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he is quick to say, though he is smiling, too.

“When we get back, I’ll cook that turnip heaven dish you love so much to make up for it,” she promises.

His face visibly brightens. “I’ll look forward to it, then.”

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


“I think I’ll be able to teleport us back.”

Arthur, in the process of packing up their supplies, looks over his shoulder at her. “Are you sure? We can still head back some more so it’s less of a strain.”

“You and I both know that we’re lost,” she says. “And I’m sure. I feel much better.”

He looks at her for a long moment. “When?”

Frey shrugs. “Now. Later. Anytime, but it would be nice to get back in time for dinner.”

“Alright. I’ll go put out the fire and finish this up, then we can go.” He grabs the container they used to collect the rain and slips through the trees for the river.

Both of them could have easily put out the fire using their magic, but neither had wanted to expend any more of their energy than necessary, conserving it for emergencies.

Frey waits for him to return.

Five minutes pass, then ten.

The river is no more than a three minute walk away, and she starts to get restless. “Arthur?”

They have not been apart from each other since the crash. Frey walks quickly through the trees, thinking of broken legs and bloody heads.

He is kneeling when she finds him, his body curved over the ground. Arthur does not look at her when she approaches, intensely focused on something between his fingers.

Finally, he gets up.

An iridescent crystal shines from his cupped hands.


	3. Chapter 3

They teleport back to the main gates.

Forte, on patrol in the area, nearly drops to her knees when she sees them. She sprints toward them, taking in their dirt-stained clothes, Arthur’s broken glasses, their pitiful bag of supplies, and launches into an endless barrage of questions.

“What happened? Are you okay? We sent out a search party days ago. Where did you—?” Forte cuts off, voice breaking, when Frey hugs her. Frey can feel Forte’s body trembling, and she hugs her tighter.

“We’re okay,” Frey says, pulling back. “We made it back. We ran into a storm, the ship crashed—”

“What?!”

“—but we’re fine now, really! We’re just happy to be home. Right, Arthur?” She turns to him, but he is already walking away in the direction of the clinic.

“We’re just going to be at Nancy’s for a while,” Frey tells the other woman, her eyes following Arthur’s retreating figure. “Let the others know that we’re back.”

“Will do,” Forte says, and runs off in the direction of the castle.

 

 

-

 

 

The cure, Nancy tells them, will take at least a week to brew, if not more.

The days in between are fraught with anxiety and excitement for both of them, though they are kept busy by their royal duties, having accumulated over their absence.

Arthur masks it well behind his placid smile, but his anticipation outdoes her by a mile. By the middle of the week, Arthur is banned from visiting the clinic, barring emergencies.

Frey visits him later that night. There is a mountain of paperwork on his desk, and she half-expects to see him behind it. But it is late and he isn’t there, so she heads to his room instead.

The sliver of light through his door tells her that he is still awake. She knocks softly.

“Come in.”

He’s sitting on his bed, a folder open on his lap. “You’re still working?” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“I have a lot to catch up on,” he says, and his smile does not quite reach his eyes. Something like disappointment curls inside her chest. There is a part of him that is still unreachable, still closed off, and she does not know what to do.

She takes a step back, hesitating. But she has only ever known how to move forward.

Arthur looks at her in surprise when her sword clatters on the floor, followed by her shield, then her cloak, then her boots. Frey moves onto his bed, straddling his outstretched legs, one knee on either side of him. He is completely still, and when her fingers go to slide off his glasses, his eyes close. She sets it aside.

Finally, he closes the folder, putting it on the side table. She smiles at her victory, and his face softens. “I couldn’t sleep,” he confesses.

Frey takes his face into her hands. “If the cure works, if it doesn’t work… Either way, it won’t change anything.”

His face tightens, and his eyes slide away from hers. He doesn’t believe her, she can tell. “It won’t,” she insists, then sighs. “Look, if it doesn’t work—I’ll be disappointed. Of course I will. But nothing will change. You’ve done so much for me.”

“I once told you that I didn’t have a home,” she says, and she feels him start to withdraw, his eyes bruised with guilt and sadness. “But I was wrong. I do have a home—here, in Selphia. With everyone… with you. You are my family. No matter what happens, I will still be here, and I will still love you.”

Her voice breaks. Arthur looks at her, eyes wide, a storm of emotion on his face. It is the first time either of them have said it. For an agonizingly long moment, he does not say or do anything, and it is just her with her heart in her open hands.

Then he leans forward, pushing his back from the headboard, and slides his mouth against hers. He kisses her hard, and the hand on her back pulls her closer, the other sliding from her waist to her thigh. Relief melts through her limbs.

He pulls back, resting his forehead against hers. When he says it back, it is almost a sigh, quiet and raw with emotion: _I love you._

She presses her mouth to his this time, soft and gentle and slow.

 

 

-

 

 

The mixture is thick and bitter, and it struggles slowly down her throat.

“It should take a few hours for it to take effect,” Jones says. She washes it down with a glass of water. Arthur is silent beside her, but his anticipation is palpable against her skin, blending with her own.

“You should stay with her for a while, just in case there are any side effects,” Jones tells Arthur. He nods.

Later, she still has no idea if it’s working or if it isn’t. All she knows is that it’s giving her a terrible headache. The pain feels like nails in her temples, blurring her vision, and she staggers.

“I’m fine,” she says when Arthur begins to hover around her.

Arthur looks at her, worry lining his face. “We’re going back to the clinic.”

 

 

-

 

 

A week passes.

The cure doesn’t work.

The disappointment is a tangible thing between her and Arthur, a heavy weight on her chest. She hadn’t known how much she’d hoped it would work until it didn’t.

Arthur takes it particularly hard when she tells him. _Anything?_ he asks, and she takes in the rough exhale, the subtle slump of his shoulders when she shakes her head _no_.

But his demeanor suddenly flips a few hours later when he sets aside his work to take her out shopping, to eat lunch, to a walk by the lake. The shock alone from the fact that he stopped working was enough to allow herself to get pulled along, but by the fourth hour of their outing, she begins to realize: he’s trying to distract her.

She kisses him underneath the trees by the water, and he smiles and wraps his arms around her.

They will be fine.

 

 

-

 

 

“I have something to tell you,” Arthur says.

Frey turns to him a fraction, still reading through the week’s harvest report. “What is it?” she says absentmindedly.

“Frey.” Something in his voice gives her pause. She raises her head, slowly lowering the report.

There is an envelope in his hand, and he is holding it out to her. His body is rigid with tension. “It’s easier to show you, I suppose.”

She slides the letter from the envelope. It’s addressed to Arthur— _Your Royal Highness_ , she notes, followed by his name and his title—and at first, she doesn’t understand.

Then she reads it again.

_I have found the person you are searching for. I regret to inform you, however, that she has recently been pronounced deceased after her prolonged disappearance. She has no living relatives. Her grave can be found in a small town southeast of the capital on her family’s property._

The letter goes on to detail directions and an address.

It is dated a week before their departure.

Arthur’s trips, his absences, his sudden distance—

“You knew,” she says. Her own voice sounds distant in her ears, her words heavy in her mouth. “You already knew who I was.”

“I did.”

“Why didn’t you—why didn’t you tell me earlier? Before all of this?”

“I wanted to try to find this first. To see if you could remember, on your own.”

She sits down slowly, ignoring the way his arms move toward her in assistance. “You should have told me.”

He is silent. Then, so quietly she strains to hear, “I know.”

“You should have—” her voice breaks off. “You know how important this is to me. And you kept it—”

Her vision begins to blur. Frey turns away, swiping angrily at her cheeks. He moves to stand in front of her; still she does not turn. Then he is kneeling in front of her, touching her face, her hands. It is a startling image: a prince of Norad, on his knees before her.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you,” he says, and she finally sees that unreadable expression of his stripped bare. The confession spills from his mouth, raw and honest: “I was afraid.”

Her brows draw together. “Of what?”

“Of losing you.”

Her breath rushes out, eyes widening. His fingers tighten briefly around hers. “I was afraid that if your memories came back, you would change. That your feelings for me would change, or that you would want to leave. It’s terribly selfish for me, I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking into a self-deprecating smile. “But you deserve the truth, and here it is. This is all I know. If you want to leave… if that’s what you want, I will accept it. I can arrange for the airship to take you to your home whenever you wish.”

The choice is in her hands.

She thinks of his apology, of all the times he could have told her. But she thinks, too, of the letter, of the forest, of the lengths he has gone through for her.

“I want to go today,” she says. His eyes flinch, but the rest of him is still.

Arthur nods once, drawing himself inward again. He rises from his knees. “I’ll have the airship prepared for you, then.”

Frey grabs onto his wrist before he walks away. “For us,” she corrects him softly. “If you can.”

His face transforms with unrestrained hope, the lines in his face relaxing. “Of course,” he says, and leaves.

 

 

-

 

 

Frey has not been on an airship since the crash.

She steps onto the deck, ignoring the tremble in her legs. But the sky is clear, and there are no storms forecasted for the entire week. She takes comfort in that, at least.

Arthur steps out from the cabin, where he has stowed their belongings. “Are you alright?” he asks when he sees her.

“Yeah,” she says, flashing a quick smile at him.

He is not convinced, though he does not move toward her, either.

Arthur has so often been a closed door. After the crash and the forest and the plant, she had thought he had begun to open up to her.

She has forgiven him for the letter. But she has not been able to give him reassurances for the fears he had so openly revealed to her at last. Some of his fears are her own—would she change, knowing who she was, knowing the past?

“Frey.” Arthur takes one step forward, then stops.

“Let’s go,” she says, and holds tight to the railing.

 

 

-

 

 

Her family’s home turns out to be a farm on the edge of a quiet town.

They had docked a few miles away, circling around through the country route, not ready to face the people yet, to see if they would see her and recognize her.

Frey looks around at her family’s property. The field, she notes, is filled with crops. Her heart sinks. “Has someone already moved in?” It has been almost two years since she fell from that ship the first time; it is unreasonable to expect that everything would still be the same.

“I didn’t investigate that far,” Arthur says, looking as if he wished he had. When she does not move, he glances over at her. “Do you want to come back tomorrow?”

“No. I want to see the grave.” The sun is beginning to set; soon, she may not be able to find it. She sets off away from the field, toward the south edge of the property. After a moment, Arthur follows.

There is a small clearing, a family lot where five headstones mark five graves. She goes to the oldest, most weathered stones. Her grandparents. Her parents were next, and she kneels down to read the inscriptions. They had not died long ago—only five years. Sorrow wells up inside her for the family she does not remember. She may not have her memories back, but some part of her recognizes this, recognizes the touch and feel of the stone as she traces her parents’ names. Her shoulders grow heavier, her muscles remembering what her mind does not—how grief bears down on her body, turning them into lead and stone.

Pain flares at the top of her head, then disappears. Frey shakes it off, blinking, and finally moves toward her own gravestone.

It is the strangest feeling, to be standing at her own grave. She looks over at Arthur to see that he, too, is unsettled by it. But then she follows his eyes, not to the stone, but to the flowers and candles in front of it.

Fresh flowers, and flames that are still burning.

She is bending down to inspect them further when a voice suddenly calls out.

“Who’s there?”

Frey snaps up and begins to reach for her sword, moving slowly but steadily in front of Arthur. A young man with light hair and purple-hued eyes walks toward them from the direction of the field, a sickle gripped tightly in his hand. “You’re trespassing on private property,” he calls out.

Arthur steps out from behind her, palms raised, opening his mouth to introduce himself before she can stop him. “We do not wish for any trouble,” he begins smoothly, but then the man suddenly halts a few feet away from them. His face goes ashen, the tool slipping from his fingers.

For a moment, none of them say anything. She and the man stare at each other. His breaths are ragged and fast, his eyes wide. She can feel Arthur’s gaze flickering between them, but there is an insistent pressure in her head, and she cannot look away.

He is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. The soft features of his face tug at her, and the thought resounds in her mind: _I know you._

Then he says, “Frey?”

It is a choked sound, and she starts when she hears her name. He breaks out into a boyish grin and closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her in a crushing hug. She does not move, cannot move, and she can hear him saying her name, over and over again.

Finally, he lets go. “I thought—” he says, and his voice is still shaking, “I had hoped, for so long, but—”

“Lest?” she whispers, pulling the name from somewhere deep in her mind, a murky fog where there was once nothing.

“Yes,” he says, his brow furrowing at the confusion on her face, the uncertain stillness of her body, he stops. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t—I don’t know who you are,” she says quietly, and sees the moment the words hit him, like a punch to the stomach. “I lost my memories two years ago in an accident.”

“But you know my name.”

“That was—that was just now. I don’t know where it came from.” Just as she says that, the pain lances through her head again, stronger than before.

Arthur catches her as her knees buckle. “Is it the side effects again?”

She shakes her head, attempting to tell him that no, the headaches from the potion felt different, but the pain eclipses every other thought.

Distantly, she hears Lest say, “Let’s get her inside,” before blacking out entirely.

 

 

-

 

 

Frey wakes, and the first thought she has is, _This is my room._

It isn’t the stone walls of the castle, but she recognizes her surroundings with startling certainty. The way the wallpaper started peeling at the corner, the stain hidden behind the curtain, the drawer and the closet—everything is exactly how she remembers it.

And she remembers.

Not everything, she realizes as she sits up. Lest is still a hazy blur, her mind struggling to slot things into place, to put things into focus. But she does remember endless days of sleeping and waking here in this room, of growing from child to adult, of settling her armor in the corner by her closet.

Frey walks out to the hallway and pauses by the stairs. Arthur and Lest are speaking quietly, and she strains to hear.

“…normally would have been turned over to become the property of the kingdom as you said, Your Highness—but she had left it for me in her will.”

“So you live here, then?”

“No, I—no. I just use the fields. I come here sometimes and use the guest room, but I… I haven’t changed anything. I was never able to. Being here, it reminded me so much of her—I couldn’t bring myself to move or pack anything away.”

“You were close,” Arthur says, and it isn’t a question.

Lest pauses. “Yes,” he says carefully. “We grew up together.”

The floor creaks when she takes a step forward and their sudden silence tells her that they sense her presence. Frey walks downstairs at last, and they immediately stand and move toward her.

Lest is the first to reach her. “How are you feeling?” he asks, full of concern.

“I have a bit of a headache, but I’m fine now. I think—” she looks over at Arthur, who has not moved any closer. “I think I’m beginning to get my memories back.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. Then Lest speaks, drawing her attention to him. “I’m glad to hear that. Do you remember me, then?”

“Not yet. I remembering my bedroom, though—growing up here. Fragments of it, at least.”

“Why don’t I try to fill in some of the missing pieces?” Lest says with a smile, the gentle features of his face brightening. “Over here, I used to come over for lunch when we were little… and over here, we marked our heights. You were taller than me for the longest time, and I was so upset at that…”

Lest continues to tell her of their shared memories, and she listens, utterly enraptured. After some time, she realizes that Arthur has not spoken—and when she looks over to him, he isn’t there.

 

-

 

 

She and Lest settle on the sofa in the living room after an hour of trading stories—tales of her time in Selphia for anecdotes of her life. Not everything he tells her triggers her memory, but some pieces do click into place. It will take some time for the rest, but she is certain they will.

Lest takes her hand in his. “I missed you so much,” he says, the lingering grief evident in every syllable. “The past two years, not knowing where you were, then thinking you were dead…”

“I’m here now,” she says softly.

Lest looks at her for a long moment, tracing over her features with his eyes, as if he were afraid to forget. Then he brushes her hair behind her cheek, his hands lingering there, his touch familiar against her skin.

Her breath catches, and she pulls away. _We grew up together_ , he’d said. “Were we—” she swallows the question, not knowing if she wants to hear the answer or not.

But he hears the rest of what she did not ask. “We were,” he says, “for a time. Not when you left, though. It was a mutual breakup.”

She releases her breath slowly. “Why?”

His smile, but his eyes are a little sad. “We were better as friends. I moved on. So did you, apparently,” he says, giving her a meaningful look, but there is no bitterness in his voice. “Quite the catch, too,” he adds teasingly.

Frey smiles back. “He is, and I love him.”

Lest’s face softens. Then he says, “He better be good to you, or there will be consequences—royalty or not.”

Frey rolls her eyes.

“Will you be coming back home?” Lest asks.

She stares at him for a moment, then looks around. She had not considered it—moving back in here, to her family’s house.

The answer comes to her immediately.

 

 

-

 

 

Frey finds Arthur in the guest room, a binder of work open on his lap as usual. He looks at her and gives her a strained smile. “How was your talk? Did you remember anything else?”

“I did, but we can talk about that later,” she says, climbing onto the bed and settling next to him. He does not quite look her in the eye.

Would you go back to them? echoes in her mind, and she had not realized until earlier what he had meant at the time: will you leave me? She finally understands everything, finally knows what that look on his face had meant, the way he’d tried so hard to hide it.

I don’t know, she’d said in reply. But she knows now.

“I can stay for one more day before I have to return. I can return in a few days to bring your things.” His voice is so determinedly neutral that it tells her how much he is struggling to hide whatever he is actually feeling.

He still doesn’t understand, even after everything. But she can’t blame him—she hadn’t, either.

So she says, “I’ll go home with you.”

He searches her eyes, letting out a breath. A relieved smile slowly spreads across his face. “You will?”

“Of course. Haven’t I already told you? My home is with you.”

Arthur takes her hand, stroking his thumb over her knuckles before bringing her hand up to brush against his lips. “And mine is with you.”

 

 

-

 

 

Frey spends the next day showing Arthur around the house, telling him everything she remembers. He listens with a smile, showing interest in every inane detail she gives. Where she tripped as a child and knocked out her front tooth. Where her father first taught her how to sword-fight. They are little things that come back to her, day by day.

When the day is coming to an end, he says, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay longer?” There is no uncertainty in his eyes anymore—only concern for her.

“I would like to come back and visit regularly,” she admits. “I haven’t decided what to do with the house yet. I want go out to the town and meet the people there, too. But not now. Maybe later, when I’ve prepared for a longer trip.”

Arthur and Frey talk of their plans for when they get home, too. What will happen, now that she has her memories back. So far, it is this:

Frey will remain at the castle and continue her work, although she will begin the process of stepping down as princess for the time being.

Arthur will send a letter to his father, informing the King of his intentions to stay at Selphia on a more permanent basis while still fulfilling his royal duties.

He will move in with her in the castle.

Frey does not know this yet, but in the near future, she will be made princess once again.

They say goodbye to Lest, who tells them to come visit soon.

When they arrive in Selphia, they are welcomed back with familiar smiles and greetings, with Volkanon’s bear hugs and the gentle notes of Margaret’s harp and the smell of Porcoline’s cooking.

Frey looks over at Arthur and smiles.

She is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! i just wanted to add that the last part, with lest appearing at the end, was inspired by a post i saw in the rf4 tags on tumblr a long time ago -- i've tried to find it but unfortunately i couldn't, if you come across it shoot me a message so i can link it here!


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